The Wistful Throne

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2026-08-20 05:39:33 -

The bus smelled of wet wool and diesel. It was a Tuesday. Or perhaps a Wednesday. The days had blurred into a single, grey smear of exhaustion. Callum sat in the back, his knees pressed against the seat in front of him. He was a large man. Broad shoulders. Thick neck. His face was a map of old scars, mostly hidden by a beard that had gone white at the edges. He wore the uniform of the state....

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